Jew #2

I was a seasoned dater by the time Jew #2 came along. He presented himself as a Jewish mother's "Dream Gone Wild." Jewish mothers pray for two things in life: good jewelry and a doctor for a son-in-law. Jew #2 was a doctor, which could potentially yield the mother-load of good jewelry.

His divorce was four years post mortem (A+: no angry emotional divorce out bursts) no children (A+: translated to no support payments to get in my way of being Mrs. Doctor) and he was a whopping six footer. Normally we don't grow Jewish males to be 6 feet. I was the winner of the Jewish trifecta!

Even with all the great pluses on Jew #2, there was NO way I was agreeing to a "home pick-up" again, thus opting for a meet and greet at local Moroccan restaurant seemed like a perfect idea.

Once again, I glammed with gusto; after all, a divorced, six foot doctor was nothing to be taken lightly! I polished and spit shined the old chasey until I smelled, looked and present like a Jaguar with low mileage. The discounted sundress showed enough leg to pique interest without revealing my aging flappy thigh. The bristen were pushed, pulled and placed into a wonder-bra, but great caution was taken to reduce the obvious "backfat-roll" All systems were a go…

I arrived at the Moroccan restaurant filled with hopes and dreams...thoughts of white organza chuppahs danced in my head. Latke’s and luckshen and lantsman…OH MY!!. Finally, I was ready to receive my reward for being a good Jewish girl with tiny hips and a fabo nose untouched by any surgeon’s hands. Then I heard the spirits of those long gone from the tribe, vibrate from the depths of my soul to the tip of my tongue. They spoke to me as I chanted the long awaited prayer “Mrs. Jewish Doctor, table for 2?”

And then?

He seemed a bit thinner than in his photo, almost twenty pounds thinner. I knew it had to be attributed to living without my fine culinary skills or my innate ability to choose amazing dishes from the take out menu. I gazed at his forehead and teeny tiny “x” shaped sprouts began to wink at me, as if taunting my dreams of being Mrs. Doctor. I soon realized that we could fix this too! Then I noticed his uber-pronounced brow bones that cast shadows upon his deep set eyes and I could not think of a “fix it” response. Then I noticed only empty spaces where “doctor” teeth has once gleamed with pride and I could not think of a “fix it” response. It was official; I was on a date with Frankendoc.

Oye Vey, all the rabbi’s horsemen and all the rabbi’s men couldn’t put doctor together again. Why you ask, because doctor lost his medical license, lost his wife, lost his weight, lost his hair, lost his home, lost his teeth to crack cocaine. Ms. Crack beat me to the chuppah.

The Moroccan belly dancer swirled around the room, as my belly swirled around my gut. I knew the dream was over, no big rock, no scrolled ketubah, no lovely chuppah, no over priced hor’derves and no doctor to order around in my old age…..Just Frankendoc and an enough time to make it home before the ten o’clock news.